Secret Histories yrj-1

by F. Paul Wilson

  Tom squeezed but it didn’t hurt, because he was squeezing Jack’s hand, not his fingers. He squeezed harder, the effort showing on his face, but stil no

  pain for Jack.

  “Mom said, ‘shake hands,’ Tom, not go steady.”

  Glaring, Tom released him.

  “That’s my boys,” Mom said as she headed back toward the kitchen. “Tom, you mop up your mess.”

  “I’m not through with you, numbnuts,” he said in a low voice.

  Jack held his gaze, then slipped past him into the hal .

  “Better get mopping or you’l miss dinner.”

  14

  Tom had gone out to who cared where. Kate and another student she met were fixing up the apartment in Stratford they’d be using during the coming year

  at medical school. His folks were off to the movies.

  He had the place to himself.

  Ah, freedom.

  He hurried upstairs to his folks’ bedroom closet and retrieved the lock box from the top shelf. He set it on the double bed and laid out the pick set next

  to it. He hadn’t found a lock like this in USED but he was sure he could open it.

  Half an hour later he was pretty sure he couldn’t. At least not at his level of experience. He needed more practice.

  Frustration gnawed at him as he folded up the pick kit, returned the box to its original place, and headed back downstairs. The secrets within had

  become secondary. The lock … the lock had become his Everest and he was determined to climb it.

  After hiding the pick set under the T-shirts in one of his drawers, he wandered through the house. He could read or watch TV, but neither appealed to

  him at the moment. He could see if he could get past the smart bombs in Missile Command,but he wasn’t in a video game mood. Weezy and Eddie

  were visiting their grandmother in Baltimore.

  That left Steve and the Heathkit.

  15

  “Steve’s downstairs working on the computer,” Mrs. Brussard said as she let him in.

  Jack hoped so, but had his doubts.

  “Is Mister Brussard around?”

  She shook her head. “No. He’s over at the Lodge. Why?”

  “I just wanted to tel him something about the black box I showed him the other night.”

  Jack had wanted to see if he would have any reaction when he told him the cube and the pyramid were missing.

  “He shouldn’t be too late.”

  Jack nodded and headed for the basement. As he passed the den he slowed, looking for the humidor. He spotted it—inside the locked liquor cabinet.

  Swel .

  Downstairs he found Steve dozing on the couch.

  Jack shook his shoulder. “Hey.”

  Steve’s lids fluttered open to reveal glassy eyes. “Hey, man.”

  Aw, no. He was at it again.

  “More pil s?”

  He grinned as he pointed to a Pepsi can and rattled the vial of pil s in his shirt pocket. “Double barreled: Valium with a bourbon chaser.”

  “But how’d you get hold of the bourbon? I thought your father had it al locked up.”

  His grin broadened. “He does. Or at least he thinks he does.” He pointed to a smal key lying on the end table. “But he doesn’t have the only key. I had a

  copy made at Spurlin’s this afternoon.”

  “Swel . So I guess you’re going to spend the night on the couch.”

  Steve burped in reply, closed his eyes again.

  Jack resisted the urge to kick him. Instead he stepped over to the end table and stared down at the key to the Brussard liquor cabinet … and to the

  humidor.

  Should I?

  He decided he should. He hadn’t been able to learn what was in his father’s lock box, but maybe he’d be able to pierce the secret of the little red boxes

  in the humidor.

  He snagged the key and hurried upstairs. If Mrs. B was around he’d just go to the fridge for a Pepsi. If not …

  She was nowhere in sight, so Jack hurried to the den and the liquor cabinet. His hand was shaking a little—what would happen if Mr. Brussard returned

  now?—so it took him a second try to put the key in the lock. As the door swung open he grabbed the humidor and lifted the lid.

  One box remained. He pul ed it out, then returned the humidor to its shelf. He turned the little red box over in his hands, examining it. It reminded him of

  a hatbox, only this was barely two inches tal and wide, and had seven sides. It was covered with some sort of fine shiny fabric, like silk.

  Jack was about to lift the lid when he heard voices in the front yard. Two men … and they sounded like they were arguing. One of the voices was Mr.

  Brussard’s. Coming closer.

  A jolt of panic coursed through Jack. He didn’t have time to put the box back in the humidor. Didn’t even have time to relock the cabinet. He pushed the

  door closed and ran in a crouch. He’d just rounded the corner into the stairwel when the door opened.

  He stood there panting like he’d just sprinted a three-minute mile.

  Too close.

  He heard Mr. Brussard saying, “You’ve just got to stay calm, Bert. Everything wil be—”

  “Calm? How can I stay calm after al that’s happened? I go to the West Coast for a week and come back to find everything gone to hel !”

  But he hadn’t been on the West Coast, Jack knew. Why was he lying?

  “After two years,” he added, “with my nerves final y calming down, this happens!”

  Two years … Anton Boruff had been murdered two years ago … “The important thing is to realize that this wil al blow over.”

  “Wil it? I’ve heard that the Council is sending someone to take charge of our Lodge.”

  As they moved into the den their voices faded and Jack didn’t have the nerve to try the bathroom trick again. So he tiptoed downstairs and checked

  Steve. Stil out.

  He looked down at the little box in his sweaty palm. How was he going to get it back in the humidor before Mr. Brussard realized it was gone?

  But before he worried about that, he had to see what it held. He lifted the lid gingerly, cautiously, half afraid something would jump out at him. But

  instead of some exotic insect or mysterious amulet, he found a smal , round, white object.

  A pil .

  He picked it up and inspected it but could find no markings to give him a hint of what it contained. But he had a suspicion it might not be good for

  anyone’s health. Steve’s father had given three of these to three men, and al were dead the fol owing day.

  Questions swirled.

  Could it be some kind of poison, something untraceable that only the Lodge knew about?

  He should take it to the police and tel them his suspicions, convince them to analyze it. That seemed the most logical and direct course, but would they

  believe him? Or would they react like Weezy and think of him as a Hardy Boy wannabe?

  But what if he was wrong? What if it was something harmless, supposed to ward off the klazen but didn’t. He’d have hurt the reputation of an innocent

  man, a man who’d jumped into the lake to save him because he thought he was drowning.

  Jack couldn’t help feeling in Mr. B’s debt. After al , what was Chal is’s role in al this?

  But he couldn’t ignore what he’d seen and heard. If Steve’s father was guilty, Jack had to find a way to let him hang himself.

  He looked at Steve, then looked at the pil lying in its box, and had an idea.

  But he’d have to set the stage careful y to make this work.

  16

  “Listen, Bert, I’ve found a way to protect us from the klazen.”

  Jack stood outside the den, listening. He’d been about to walk in but had

  stopped just around the corner.

  “I don’t need protection from some mythical threat, I need—”


  “Vasquez, Haskins, and Sumter might disagree as to how mythical it is. If I could

  have got to them in time they’d stil be alive.”

  A lie. He’d given them each a pil .

  That clinched it for Jack.

  He’s guilty, he thought. But I’m the only one who knows.

  In the next few minutes he hoped to change that.

  “You know what?” Chal is said. “I almost wish I were with them. This is eating

  me alive. We shouldn’t have taken matters into our own hands like that. We—”

  Mr. Brussard cut him off, saying, “What’s done is done. We’ve got to deal with

  now. Let me show you what I’ve got. I—hey. This is supposed to be

  locked.”

  Uh-oh. Time to make his move. Jack quickly stepped into the den. Mr. Brussard

  was squatting by the liquor cabinet; Chal is, a thin, twitchy man, stood nearby.

  “Mister Brussard?”

  He looked around to stare at him. “Jack! How long have you been standing

  there?”

  Jack dodged the question by saying, “I think there’s something wrong with

  Steve.”

  Mr. B straightened and stepped closer, his expression concerned. “What do you

  mean?”

  “I can’t wake him up.”

  In a flash, he was pushing past Jack. He almost knocked over Mrs. B as she

  stepped from the stairs into the hal way.

  “Gordon, what’s wrong?”

  “Steve! Downstairs!”

  She blanched. “What—?”

  But her husband was already to the basement steps. As he pounded down she

  hurried after him. Chal is fol owed, though not as hurriedly.

  Jack stayed behind and picked up the phone. He dialed 911 and reported an

  unconscious person at the Brussard address. Then he headed

  downstairs.

  When Jack arrived, Steve’s folks were shaking him, yel ing at him to wake up.

  His eyes fluttered open and gave them a dazed look.

  “Wha? Wha?”

  His father spotted the Pepsi can next to the couch and sniffed it. His face turned

  red.

  “You’re drunk!” he cried and grabbed the front of Steve’s shirt. “You’ve been

  pilfering from my—!”

  Something rattled in Steve’s breast pocket. Mr. Brussard pul ed out the pil vial

  and stared at it.

  “It’s your Valium!” he said, turning to his wife. “He’s—!”

  And then he froze. Jack fol owed his gaze to the little red box on the cushion

  next to Steve.

  “What’s—?”

  He snatched it up and yanked off the top. His red face turned ashen when he

  looked inside.

  “Oh, no!” He turned to Steve and shook him. “Did you take this?” Steve gave him another glassy stare. “No. It’s right there.”

  “I mean the pil , damn it! Did you take the pil that was in here?” Steve shrugged and slurred, “Dunno … maybe … coulda.”

  Mr. Brussard tossed the box aside and started lifting Steve under the arms. “We’ve got to get him to the hospital!”

  Just then someone knocked on the wal of the stairwel and cal ed down. “Hel o? Is there a problem here?” A sheriff’s deputy came down the stairs. Not

  Tim, but Jack had seen him at the car lot when the first aid was trying to revive Mr. Sumter.

  He’d been counting on a deputy’s arrival—the cops always responded to a 911. “I heard the first-aid cal and came over to see if I could help.” “First-aid cal ?” Mr. Brussard looked around. “Who—? Never mind. My son took

  pil s and liquor! He needs to get his stomach pumped!”

  “The ambulance is on its way.” The deputy leaned closer to Steve. “He’s stil

  conscious. Maybe he won’t need that.”

  “He wil ! He’l die!”

  The deputy wasn’t looking where Jack wanted him to, so he picked up the little

  red box and pretended to examine it. When the deputy saw it he

  reached toward Jack.

  “May I?”

  As Jack handed it over, Mr. Brussard said, “Never mind that! We’ve got to get

  him to the hospital!”

  But the deputy wasn’t listening. He was staring at the box, turning it over in his

  hands.

  “I’ve seen one of these before. Mister Sumter had it on him when he died. And

  I’ve heard the same box was found on Vasquez and Haskins.” He looked up at Mr. Brussard. “What was in this?”

  “Nothing. Look, we need to—”

  “Nothing?” Chal is said. “Nothing?I just heard you ask your boy if he took the

  pil that was inside.” His jaw dropped. “And when he said yes you went crazy. You just said he’l die.” He pointed to Mr. Brussard. “It’s you! You poisoned

  them! Sumter, Vasquez, and Haskins—you kil ed them!”

  Mr. Brussard looked stunned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “It’s true! It’s al clear! You poisoned them with whatever pil was in that box! And

  I was next! ‘I’ve found a way to protect us from the klazen.’ Isn’t that what you said? But what I need is protection from you!”

  Mrs. B looked horrified. “Gordon, what is this man talking about?” The deputy frowned at Chal is. “Why would he want to kil you?” “Because five can keep a secret only when four are dead, isn’t that right,

  Gordon.”

  “I’m not fol owing,” the deputy said.

  “We kil ed Anton Boruff—the body found in the Pines!”

  “Bert!” Mr. Brussard shouted.

  “There. I’ve said it. It’s haunted me for two years. Now maybe I’l be able to

  sleep at night!” He turned to the deputy and his words spewed at machine

  gun speed. “He swindled us—fake diamonds. We confronted him. Things got rough. He fel , hit his head. It wasn’t supposed to happen. We didn’t mean

  to—”

  “‘We’?” the deputy said. “Who do you mean?”

  “Me, Sumter, Vasquez, Haskins, and Gordon here.”

  Just then a heavy guy with a first-aid emblem on his shirt thundered down the stairs.

  “We tried the bel but no one answered. I heard voices—” He looked at the swaying Steve. “Is this the unconscious person you reported?”

  “I didn’t report anyone,” Mr. Brussard said, “but as long as you’re here, he needs immediate hospitalization.”

  Jack figured this had gone on long enough. He snatched the pil from where he’d left it on the floor behind the couch, and held it up.

  “Is this the pil ?”

  Mr. Brussard’s eyes widened. “Give it to me,” he said, reaching for it.

  But the deputy grabbed his arm.

  “I’l take that.”

  Jack gave it to him. He looked at it, put it in the little red box, and shoved the box into a pocket. Then he stepped back and rested one hand on his pistol

  as he pul ed his two-way from his belt.

  “This is Driscol ,” he said. “I’ve got a situation at one twenty-seven Harding in Johnson. Requesting backup.”

  Jack felt a rush of … what? A strange, tingling fire flared in his chest as he realized he’d done it. He’d tricked Mr. Brussard into incriminating himself. He

  wanted to whoop and yel and do the Snoopy dance around the room.

  But he couldn’t. Now was not the time. Not with Steve and his mother staring in shock and fear and disbelief at the man they cal ed father and husband.

  Maybe there’d never be a good time for the Snoopy dance.

  Free-form guilt dul ed the edge of his elation. He looked around and found Mr. Brussard glaring at him.